


Canoodle

by KellerProcess



Series: A. Z. Fell and A. J. Crowley's Dating Service [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: F/F, M/M, Other, Tumblr Prompt, beelzebub alternates between she/her and ze/zir pronouns, improper flirting, other character appear briefly, rated teen for some bawdy sexual humor, wedding crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 18:18:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19446961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KellerProcess/pseuds/KellerProcess
Summary: From this Tumblr suggestion: at Aziraphale’s and Crowley’s wedding reception Heaven and Hell are sat across from each other, Beelzebub and Gabriel play footsie under the table except they don’t understand the concept so they just end up increasingly aggressively kicking the other in the shins until Aziraphale has to interfereAn Ineffable Husbands fic with a huge side helping of Ineffable Bureaucracy.





	Canoodle

Aziraphale had wanted something simple: to elope with Crowley to France (crepes!), or Belgium (chocolates!), or even New York City (the theater! And, of course, the dance clubs--all for Crowley's sake, of course).  
But the children had to be thought of. Leaving Adam and his friends out of the nuptials of their "ethereal uncles"—Wensley's words—had been unthinkable. And after that, leaving Newt and Anathema out had seemed unfair, not to mention Mr. Shadwell and Madame Shadwell née Tracy.  
That, of course, had led to the inevitable question: what to do about the hosts of heaven and hell.

"Nothing, of course," Crowley had spat. "In case you've forgotten, they tried to kill us!" he rejoined when Aziraphale gave him that fussy, unhappy look. Oh, that look could get him to walk through a river of holy water!  
"Well, it isn't as though I've forgotten, my darling. But you know the stories about the fairies who don't get an invitation to the wedding. Or christening. Is it christening?" Aziraphale's nose scrunched up in that adorable way it did as he turned to the bookshop's mythology section. "I could have sworn it was a christening."  
Crowley put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Yes, yes, you're right," he said as his angel turned to face him. "Well, not about the christening—heaven if I know. They were fine enough with leaving us alone to fraternize, but a wedding? No, ohhhh no. That's different. That moves beyond fraternizing to outright canoodling."

"Canoodling?" Aziraphale smiled and stepped in close. "I'm surprised, Crowley. Usually you have a much more…colorful term for It. If you aren't careful, you'll be saying 'pip pip cheerio' next."  
Crowley made an exasperated face as he pulled Aziraphale against him. "That's not at all funny, you know." His voice lowered as his yellow eyes gleamed. "And you know what I do to angels when they try to be clever." 

Aziraphale grinned as Crowley trailed his forked tongue down Aziraphale’s neck. "Mh, I must say I've quite forgotten, silly old fool that I am. It must've been all the strain I've been under preparing for the big day." He slid his hand down Crowley's back to cup one bony cheek. "I'm afraid you'll have to teach me again."

And Crowley did.

Several times, in fact. Twice in Classical Fiction.  
Twice in Astronomy.  
And twice beneath the Jeffrey Archer books. You know. Just for funsies. 

***  
No stadium in Great Britain could possibly accommodate the ten-million-strong forces of heaven and hell respectively—and thank God for that, Aziraphale thought as the wedding party of each faction trudged through the door of the small, respectable dining room he and Crowley had rented for afternoon tea before the private ceremony in the gazebo outside. Put that many demons and that many angels within the same room—no, even the same postal code—and a second Armageddon would break out.

Though from the way Beelzebub and Gabriel were glaring at one another across the table, that conclusion was looking more and more like a fairly optimistic one.

The contest had started, as all things seemed to when the prince of hell and the leader of the archangels were sat at the same table, over a sugar bowl. When Beelzebub had reached for it, Gabriel had promptly snatched it away from her fingertips.

"Pardon me, I was going to use some of these cubes to put into this crude matter called—"  
"Tea," Sandalphon piped up helpfully, eyeing the scones and clotted cream.  
"Ah, yes. Tea. Which humans drink," Gabriel concluded proudly as he tipped the entire bowl into his teacup. As anyone who had ever had a proper cup of tea could tell you, this was not the most optimal way to enjoy it. It was, however, the most optimal way to overflow the saucer and ruin the delicate linens beneath.

Crowley sighed and waved the stain away. Thank goodness for miracles, Aziraphale thought. Ethereal beings had no real need for money, but well, having to pay for ruining the tablecloth would have been rather embarrassing. 

Meanwhile, Gabriel was grinning at Beelzebub as if he wanted a gold star from the teacher. Unfortunately for him, Beelzebub's form of schooling Involved rolling zir eyes and sending a fly straight for his Impeccably straight teeth.

"You don't overflow the cup, you fool," she buzzed as Gabriel choked on the fly, which seemed to relish giving him merry hell. "You fill it to the brim. I'd demonstrate, but it looks like we're all out of sugar. I wonder why.

"My fliezzz aren't happy, Crowley," she informed her former subordinate.

"I'd like zir and zir flies to get the heaven out of our tea," Crowley muttered to Aziraphale. But he miracled up a new sugar bowl, anyway. "Yes, sorry about that, Lord Beelzebub. But, well, we're all learning, all the time, about all sorts of things, yeah?"  
"Hm," Beelzebub said as ze dropped seven sugar cubes unceremoniously into her own bone-china cup.

Gabriel's face, meanwhile, had turned a very interesting shade of puce. With one great hack-hack-hack, the fly was, er, flying free and returning to Beelzebub's hat, where presumably it began gossiping to its lord about the state of Gabriel's tonsils—or, well. Something like that, Aziraphale supposed. If Gabriel had decided to have tonsils today.  
"Deliciouzzzz," ze proclaimed after taking a sip. Her flies seemed to agree as they converged on the cup. Ugh, really, Aziraphale thought. He didn't fault the demons for their looks, or for the creatures that accompanied them everywhere like familiars. But must they be such impolite familiars?

Happily, things settled down after that, and the archangels and the lords of hell moved readily into what seemed to be pleasant conversation. Aziraphale's eyebrows raised when he spotted Michael and Dagon leaning rather closer than enemies ought—even enemies who may be thawing into frenemy territory. Michael smiled and leaned even closer to whisper something in Dagon's ear.

Dagon roared with laughter and pounded her fist on the table, nearly rattling the sandwiches from everyone's plates.

"Hm, would you look at that," Crowley murmured, leaning in close to Aziraphale. "D'you think we're beginning to rub off on them?"

"Oh, I couldn't say. Though from the looks of it, they may be doing some rubbing off of their own tonight." Aziraphale giggled. That was the filthiest thing he had ever said!

Crowley slid his sunglasses down to the center of his angular nose and regarded Aziraphale with his shimmering yellow eyes. "Angel," he tsked. "Really, now? If you're talking like that without so much as a blush, then clearly I'm rubbing off on you even more than I thought. We're in dangerous territory now."

Aziraphale playfully slapped Crowley's hand away as Crowley slithered it up his thigh. "No, don't say it."

"And why not?" Crowley purred in his ear. "I'll be rubbing you off soon enough tonight."

Just as Aziraphale was about to suggest they excuse themselves for a brief canoodling session in the gent's washroom, the table quivered. Thinking, perhaps, that Dagon had slapped her hand down upon it while laughing at yet another of Michael's whispered somethings, Aziraphale glanced up—  
Only to see Beelzebub and Gabriel glaring fiercely at one another.

Beelzebub's body twitched slightly and the table juddered again. Gabriel continued to glare as he winced, and then he bounced ever so slightly in return. This time, it was Beelzebub's turn to wince.

Crowley was rarely struck speechless by anything. Now, however, he removed his sunglasses entirely to stare at the two rocking leaders. "Are they…? Are they kicking each other under the table?"  
He was answered by Gabriel growling, “Ow,” at Beelzebub, before Beelzebub snarled and, presumably, kicked him again.

Right.  
This was getting ridiculous.  
Aziraphale rose from his seat and stormed to the opposite end of the table.

“Both of you,” he growled, “in the hallway. Now.”

“What?” Gabriel asked with a laugh. “Do you think I’m going to take orders from you?”

Beelzebub buzzed zir agreement.  
Lightning lit up the windows, which rattled in the clap of thunder that followed.  
The entire table went silent. Even Dagon’s laughter cut off mid-shout.  
“On our wedding day?” Crowley asked, looking from one to the other. “Oh, you’d better believe that you will.”  
“I am not remotely even f-fussing around,” Aziraphale informed them. “Now join us in the hallway.” Blushing slightly at the tone of voice he’d taken—not to mention the minor tantrum he’d thrown with that bolt out of the lovely summer blue sky—he added, “Please?”

Beelzebub sighed and pushed her chair back. Aziraphale suspected she was only complying because, deep down, ze was still a little afraid of him.

“Really, I don’t see what the problem is,” Gabriel groused as he stood too. But he followed the three from the room.  
In the hallway, Aziraphale turned to them, hands on his hips. He didn’t know where to begin. So he decided to start with the obvious.

“I am extremely disappointed in you both,” he informed them. “Really, you are the leaders of heaven and hell. Can’t you think of others for once and put aside your differences for a few hours, like sensible ethereal beings?”

Said leaders of heaven and hell stared at him in confusion.

“But…,” Beelzebub said, just as Gabriel said, “I don’t understa—”  
They looked at each other quickly, and Aziraphale sensed a sort of nonverbal conversation pass between them. After a beat, Gabriel nodded at Beelzebub.

“I don’t understand,” she said, turning back to them. “We weren’t fighting.”  
Gabriel gestured to zir, as if to say, “Yes, what ze said.”  
“Well, of course you were!” Aziraphale blustered. “You were kicking each other underneath the table!”  
“No, we weren’t,” Beelzebub insisted. “We were playing footsies.”  
Aziraphale and Crowley stared at them for what felt to Aziraphale like a full century.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said after a moment, removing his shades again. “But … what?”

He spoke for both of them.  
“Izzn’t that the name for it?” Beelzebub frowned. “You know, the game humanzz play when they want to be intimate.”  
“What?” It was Aziraphale’s turn to ask.  
“Aren’t we suppozed to use our feet?” Zir frown deepened. “See,” she said, turning to a bemused Gabriel. “I told you that wazzn’t how it worked!”

“No,” Aziraphale spluttered. “No, it is how i—”  
What on earth was he saying? The prince of hell and heaven’s supreme archangel had just admitted to—to fraternizing at his and Crowley’s wedding reception!  
No, not fraternizing. Canoodling. 

“Oh dear Lord.” Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is our wedding party, Prince Beelzebub, Archangel Gabriel. And I won’t have you spoiling it by giving one another bruises in an attempt to—” He turned to his fiancé and gave him a pleading look. “Crowley, if you please. I—I am not sure I have the politesse for this.” 

“Right, then,” Crowley said, replacing his sunglasses. “You two’ve got it all wrong. Aziraphale? Your hand, if you don’t mind.”

Aziraphale didn’t hesitate to hold it out to him. He wasn’t sure what Crowley was about, but whatever it was, Aziraphale trusted him.

“Now….” Crowley sighed. “Satan’s bollocks, I can’t believe I’m doing this, but— Here. Pretend that our hands are feet.” He gently ran his fingers over the side of Aziraphale’s hand. Though the gesture was as clinical and instructive as Crowley could make it, Aziraphale blushed nonetheless.

I am certainly not going to ever let him forget this!  
“There, see? Nice and gentle. No bruising, no glaring. And most importantly, no using toes as cudgels.” He lowered Aziraphale’s hand and twined their fingers together.

“Ohh,” both leaders murmured. 

“But—don’t they say that love is a battlefield?” Beelzebub asked. “If that’zz so, why wouldn’t we fight?”

“I thought it was an open door,” Gabriel said helpfully.  
“No, I’m pretty sure it’zz a battlefield.”

Crowley sighed as though he were a teacher who was failing at keeping a rowdy classroom in check. “I say this with all due respect, guys, but you really need to get out more—and stop taking the lyrics of eighties pop songs so seriously—or those from Disney cartoons.”

And then his expression widened into shock. As it did, Aziraphale had the same revelation.

“Did—did you say love?” Crowley croaked.

“Izn’t that what people feel when they want to play footsies with someone?”

“Or when they think someone is the handsomest demon they’ve ever seen?”

“Oh, stop with that.”

“But you are.”

Right, then. This was turning into a right clusterfiddle. “If you’d like,” Aziraphale said meekly, “I’ve several books on the subject of sexual and romantic relationships at my shop. Perhaps you would find them useful?”

He hoped they would be far more interested in reading than in attending the ceremony and doing … well, Lord knew what. Probably slapping each other next, or starting a food fight with the lovely triple-layered wedding cake—chocolate, red velvet, and vanilla.  
Oh, that did not bear thinking about!

And thank the Lord, the two looked at him with interest—an interest that suggested they would stay far away from the cake.

“You can open the door with the most minor of miracles—or reverse-miracles,” he said with a nod to Beelzebub. Offending the prince of hell was at the nadir of the list of things he never wanted to do. 

Though no one else could have sensed it, Crowley was definitely giving him a Look from behind his sunglasses. Understandable. After all, Aziraphale treasured his books above all else—save for Crowley, of course.

And perhaps the only other thing with which he was desperately, hopelessly, passionately in love—and lust: tira misu.

Though, if Crowley could hardly believe he was entrusting two of the least trustworthy beings in the cosmos with what amounted to the keys to his bookshop, then Aziraphale had an even harder time. 

Still, better the two misplaced a few books—or perhaps threw them at each other in some bizarre attempt at foreplay—than spoil the most important day of Aziraphale and Crowley’s protracted lives.

“Well,” Gabriel hedged, “if you wouldn’t mind—”  
“Oh, shut up,” Beelzebub snapped. “Let’zz go. Weddings are tedious anyway, all that gushing and sooking—no offense,” ze said in a tone that definitely meant ze didn’t care either way if ze had caused it.  
“Quite all right, Prince Beelzebub. No offense taken.”

“Well then.” Gabriel stepped forward and clapped Aziraphale awkwardly on the shoulder. He squeezed for a moment too long before withdrawing it and giving his former subordinate his most sincere smile and a double thumbs-up—which, of course, made him look like a model in an advert from the nineteen thirties. “Goodbye, then. Have a wonderful wedding.”

Beelzebub nodded to Crowley before the two vanished in a burst of green-and-lavender light.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley with eyebrows raised. “Well, that was different. Both colors combined. What do you suppose it means?”

“Who knows.” Crowley shrugged. “Maybe that they’re getting on because they want to get it on.” He winced. “I can’t believe I just said that. Anyway.” He clapped his hands together. “That was disturbing. I hope it didn’t ruin your day, angel.”

“Oh, not a bit,” Aziraphale assured him, stepping in close and encircling Crowley’s waist, pulling his beloved against his body. “But, you know, if you’re worried, you could kiss me all better.”

“Hm. Gent’s washroom, then?”

Aziraphale winked at him.

***  
The rest of the wedding went off without a hitch—and without another thunderclap. Of course, Madame Shadwell sobbed through the wedding vows, and even Mr. Shadwell daubed at his eyes—later complaining, of course, that a “damned piece of dust” had gotten in one of them. Not that anyone had wondered at it. The children took great delight in daring Crowley to smash a piece of cake into Aziraphale’s face—a dare which, much to their even greater delight, Aziraphale beat him to. 

And Crowley had even become misty-eyed himself when Aziraphale snapped his fingers and “Bohemian Rhapsody” played over the portable speakers as they took to the gazebo for their first dance as husbands.

The party lasted well into the evening, and the ethereal couple drank so much wine they had to refill their bottles several times. When the celebration finally broke off somewhere in the neighborhood of four a.m., Aziraphale and Crowley climbed into Crowley’s Bentley—which, of course, The Them had kitted out with tin cans, streamers, and “Just Married” painted on the sides in what Adam had assured Crowley—several times—was a substance that would come off easily. 

“You know,” Crowley said as he started the engine. “Once in the gents’ room wasn’t enough for me today.” This time, Aziraphale didn’t slap away the hand that slithered onto his thigh. “Mhh, angel. Can’t wait to get you alone.” 

“Just don’t run any traffic lights, my love,” Aziraphale teased as Crowley pulled from the lot. “I’d hate to spend our first night together as newlyweds miracling away some poor officer’s memory of a speeding ticket.”  
Crowley snorted, but he did drive only a few miles above the speed limit on the way back to Aziraphale’s bookshop—their bookshop now, Aziraphale supposed, now that Crowley had officially moved into Aziraphale’s apartment above it. Oh, the smaller space was no great shakes, surely, but it was a great deal cozier than Crowley’s mausoleum-like flat, which unsurprisingly an up-and-coming rock band was now renting out as a practice space-slash-recording studio.

Crowley parked the Bentley in its usual spot behind the building, then leaned over and trailed kisses along Aziraphale’s neck as he attempted to squirm into Aziraphale’s lap. 

“Now, now,” Aziraphale chided, though he did slide his hands around Crowley’s rear. “Didn’t you say you wanted to get me alone first?”

“Mh, we are alone, angel.”

“No, your car is watching us.”  
“Oh.” Crowley looked at the steering wheel suspiciously. “Of course. How foolish of me to forget. You just have that effect on me, I suppose.”

“All right,” Aziraphale chuckled after Crowley had spent several minutes in his lap, simply covering his face with kisses. “Really, dearest, we should go inside now.”

“Spoilsport.” But Crowley climbed out his side of the car, then opened Aziraphale’s door.

So polite.

As Aziraphale opened the door to their bookshop, he remembered where he’d sent their former employers. Hopefully, the pair had done their research and returned to their respective kingdoms to have a good ponder on it—  
Or, perhaps, he thought with a smile, they might simply rent a hotel room and get some practical experience.

Wouldn’t that be nice?

As he turned on the lights, he froze in horror.

“Angel, what’s wrong?” Crowley asked as he stepped through the door. “Oh, heaven,” he murmured as he saw the same thing.

The shop looked as though a second apocalypse had struck it and then set it down somewhere far north of Kansas. Books littered the floor, many of them having spilled from at least three overturned shelves.  
Thankfully, nothing was on fire, though really, that was cold comfort.

“Oh hell,” Aziraphale agreed as Beelzebub peeked around one of the downed shelves. Her head was followed shortly by Gabriel’s. The two looked rather annoyed, as though they’d just been interrupted. Indeed, Beelzebub’s flies were the sole party to appear the least bit sheepish.  
Thank the Lord they were both clothed.

“What—what—” Aziraphale couldn’t find the words. He staggered back into Crowley, who caught him beneath the armpits.

Beelzebub rolled her eyes. “We were doing research, Aziraphale. Just like you told us to.” 

“But—but why—” This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.

“Well,” Gabriel said in what he probably thought was a helpful manner, “you see, we read through some books with incredibly descriptive pictures, and then a few with pictures of kissing people on the covers—”  
“They were dreadful,” Beelzebub supplied. “Even Hastur could have written something better.”  
“That doesn’t explain—”  
“Don’t be thick, Aziraphale,” Beelzebub said. “You saw how we mucked up footsie today.” Ze looked proud of zirelf for finally getting the term right. “We figured we needed some practical experienzzz.”  
Zir flies buzzed in apparent agreement.

“In my shop?”

“Well, you did give us permission to use it,” Gabriel said. He probably thought that was helpful too. “Now, if you two will excuse us, we’d like to get back to—what was the word for it again, Zee?”  
“Canoeing, I think.”

“Canoodling!” Aziraphale cried. “It’s canoodling, for—” He threw his up in despair. 

“You know what, angel?” Crowley asked, turning Aziraphale around to face him. “Let’s not ruin the happiest day of our live. Oi, you two,” he said over his husband’s shoulder. “We’re going to forget we saw this and go upstairs to start our honeymoon. If we come down tomorrow and everything isn’t back in its place … well.” He gave them his fiercest grin. “There’s no telling what we’ll do, but trust me. It’ll make bathing in holy water and walking into hellfire look like parlor tricks. Dig me?”

Both leaders nodded, looking somewhat horrified.

“Right. Nighty-night, then,” Crowley said, leading a stunned Aziraphale to the back room, then up the stairs to their apartment.

“Oh Lord,” Aziraphale groaned as he shut the front door. 

“No, don’t even say it,” Crowley insisted, pulling him close. “Just … forget all about them. Who knows? A romance between heaven and hell might stave off a second apocalypse. Well”—he winced—“provided they ever figure out that they aren’t canoeing.”  
It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t funny in the slightest. And yet, Aziraphale found himself snickering. Crowley grinned back and responded with a chuckle. Chuckling turned into laughing; laughing turned into guffawing; guffawing turned into great belly laughs that would have put Dagon’s flirtations to shame.

“Oh, oh my,” Aziraphale stammered, wiping tears from his eyes. “That was rather a shock, wasn’t it? Your former employer and mine—” 

“Canoeing.”

They erupted in peals of laughter again.

“All right, all right,” Crowley finally said. “Enough of them.” He removed his sunglasses and set them on a nearby end table, and Aziraphale immediately forgot everything but those stunning yellow eyes. The eyes that had enthralled and bedazzled him since the fall of Eden.

The eyes that would always enthrall and bedazzle him.

“Hm, now then,” he murmured as he stepped close, pulling Crowley into his arms. “You’ve got me alone. What are you going to do with me, hm?”

“Everything you’ve ever wanted, angel.”

Yes, indeed, Aziraphale decided as he took Crowley’ hand and led him to their bedroom. Mishaps included, this truly had been the best day of his life.


End file.
